


The Calf and the Swallow: P. 2

by mooncalfhippie



Series: The Calf and the Swallow [2]
Category: Notre-Dame de Paris | The Hunchback of Notre-Dame - All Media Types, Notre-Dame de Paris | The Hunchback of Notre-Dame - Victor Hugo, The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:20:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23607439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mooncalfhippie/pseuds/mooncalfhippie
Summary: The "freak-show" is in Paris, and the show master is looking for new spectacles. Meanwhile, Frollo's younger brother, Jehan, comes to Paris. Amaranth is forced to face the music while Quasimodo tries to juggle the opposing forces of trauma and companionship in his life.There is no rest for the wicked.Part two of The Calf and the Swallow.
Relationships: Esméralda | Esmeralda/Phoebus de Martin, Quasimodo (HoND)/Original Character(s)
Series: The Calf and the Swallow [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1685083
Comments: 28
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to post chapter one just to get the ball rolling. As I write this, I have about eight chapters done. I'll post the rest en masse once I'm finished. 
> 
> Oh, and don't worry. I'm going to be recycling some names/ideas from HoND 2 just as a middle finger to that movie, but the characters will not be the same at all.
> 
> Peace.

“Come on boys, I said I’d pay you back,” Jehan slurred, smiling. He stumbled into a barrel, spilling ale. “When have I ever lied?”

“We don’t have time for this,” a large man responded, grabbing Jehan’s shirt and pulling him close. “This is the last time I lend you anything, you worthless drunkard.”

“Pffft,” Jehan responded, “Come now. We’re friends, aren’t we? Thick as thieves!”

“There’s only one thief among us, Jehan. Get me my money,” the man warned. He shoved Jehan aside. “I don’t want to hurt you, Jehan. But I need that money!”

“Alright, alright,” Jehan put up his hands, still smirking, “I’ll figure it out. Don’t worry!”

The man shook his head. He sighed, turning away. “This is your last chance, Jehan.”

Jehan watched the man leave. He wiped his nose, turning from the corner. He took a few steps, stumbling, before leaning over to vomit. He sat down against the outside of a building and fell asleep among the beggars.

* * *

“Are you sure this’ll work?” Quasimodo asked. He straightened up to peer over Amaranth’s shoulder. She was holding a pouch of apples, and eating one.

“Nope,” she responded between bites, wiping her chin. She elbowed him lightly in the stomach and he nudged her back.

Quasimodo and Amaranth approached the paddock. Quasimodo had decided to pay for Snowball’s care, but the horse remained untamed and aggressive. A stablehand came up beside the pair. He peered at Quasimodo, then averted his eyes, clearing his throat.

“Ol’ Snowball has thrown our best riders. He might be better off if you put him down,” the stablehand said. He shook his head disapprovingly, putting his hands on his hips. “Damn horse is completely mad.”

Snowball perked his ears. He stopped his grazing to charge the fence, causing everyone standing there to back up. Snowball snorted and paced the fence, taking large, heavy steps.

“So this Frollo guy used to ride him?” Amaranth asked. “It’s a handsome horse.” She leaned over the fence once Snowball was at a distance, causing him to turn sharply and charge her again. She backed off, avoiding him just in time. The stablehand walked off.

Quasimodo nodded. He watched the stallion, frowning. He didn’t talk much about Frollo with Amaranth--the man’s very name was poison, and he was hesitant to introduce that venom to their relationship. Frollo’s bitterness grew like mold over all living things, even in death. The horse seemed to prove this.

Amaranth pulled an apple out of the pouch and threw it into the paddock. Snowball approached it, sniffed it, then stomped it angrily with his hoof. Amaranth threw another apple, this time hitting Snowball’s side. Snowball huffed, then kicked at the apple where it landed. Amaranth pulled out another apple and held it up like a matador presenting a red cloth to a raging bull. Snowball glared at her, standing still. She slipped close to the fence, timid, and placed the fruit on the fence. She backed off to stand with Quasimodo, and pulled him behind the stable.

Snowball watched them disappear. He snorted, kicking up a chunk of dirt and grass, and swayed his head back and forth. He approached the fence slowly, watching where they had disappeared. Finally, he took the apple into his mouth and ate it.

Amaranth peered from behind the stable to watch Snowball. “Stubborn thing,” she mumbled, smiling.

“What happened?” Quasimodo asked, leaning over to look out into the paddock. Snowball saw him and turned around, trotting off.

Amaranth handed him an apple. “Come on, I need something more to eat,” she announced, walking away. He followed her as they strolled through Paris. The sun was out, despite the cold, and some sort of exhibition had come to town. Neither of them were very excited about it. Amaranth called them “cruel wheeler-dealers”.

Amaranth got them some bread and they moved onto one of the smaller stone footbridges over the Seine. She walked along the edge of the bridge, chewing. Quasimodo sat down, letting his feet hover above the water. He fielded the judgemental stares of passers-by and, rather than shrink inward, watched Amaranth. Her laissez-faire confidence rubbed off on him. He’d never go outside without receiving such looks. And neither would she, as long as she insisted on dancing along bridges and singing.

She was nearly across from the bridge as a stray dog sprinted past, knocking her over. She fell down on her back, and immediately began to laugh. Her shirt hiked up to reveal the hair on her body, but there was no one visible nearby. She tugged her shirt down and rolled over, still laughing. Quasimodo ran to her and helped her up.

“Are you okay?!” he asked her. She was giggling to herself.

“That’s what I get for not paying attention,” she said, chuckling. She angled her elbow to get a good look at a scrape, and Quasimodo grabbed her arm and looked at the injury. He frowned.

“There are worse things,” Amaranth said. She rubbed the dirt off of her elbow. “See? No worries. C’est la vie! Isn’t that what they say?”

“Come on,” Quasimodo held her arm gently, “let’s get that cleaned up.”

* * *

The freak show master crept in between buildings, ducking behind carriages and lurking among crowds to spy on the hunchback. He was a man of thin build with greasy, long dark hair, brown eyes, and a handlebar mustache--the only facial hair he could grow. His mustache seemed to borrow hair from his eyebrows, which were grey and sparse.

As a freak show master, he had a bearded woman, an unusually short man, and a man with a vestigial leg. They earned Sarousch a pretty penny, but he needed something new, something more surprising. The hunchback of Notre-Dame--by then a famous term, even outside Paris--would be an immaculate addition.

Sarousch watched as the bell-ringer sat down. A woman nearby, perhaps drunk, was skipping along the bridge and eating bread. Sarousch watched with mild enjoyment as the woman was tripped by a dog, and his eyes widened as he watched her fall. He leaned forward and squinted, trying to get a good look at her bare torso. He grinned, slapping the barrel he was hiding behind, and disappeared back into the alleyways.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been taking me longer than I thought to complete this so I figured I'd post some more of what I have written.

A blonde-haired woman slipped through a crowd, escaping a man who had noticed her pickpocketing him. She dropped the ring which she had stolen in between her breasts and ran into one of the freak show caravans. She went and sat on a box to admire her expertly commandeered bauble.

“A ring? Is that your best?” Sarousch asked, stepping through a parting of fabric which hung inside the caravan like a cat pushing past a tablecloth.

“What’s wrong with it?” the woman asked, incredulous. She pocketed the ring and scowled at the freak show master. “What did you get, an old woman’s shoe?”

“It’s what I’m going to get that’s of value, my dear,” he purred, petting her hair. She quirked a brow, intrigued.

“What do you mean?”

Sarousch looked out of the barred window, observing the bearded woman playing cards with one of the men he hired to protect the show. There weren’t many people traveling with them, which was exactly what he preferred. One of his primary concerns was keeping away from hirelings trying to kill his money-makers for the sake of either ending their “demonry” or for traditional medicine. The individuals he advertised as freaks had all, so far, arrived willingly. Like a widow turning to prostitution, they had few options for making a living. Sarousch fed them and put a roof over their heads, which was measly compensation for the mistreatment they faced, mostly at his hands. The bell-ringer, however, had managed to find a profession. Sarousch had even heard that the unusual man was well-off. As such, he couldn’t expect Quasimodo to come crawling to him desperate to make ends meet; Sarousch needed to use another tactic.

Sarousch circled the woman, holding his chin. He paused to examine her face.

“You’ve heard of the bell-ringer,” he stated.

“Of course. So I take it you want him?”

“You know me,” he responded, smiling. “But I’ll need you.”

“What can I do? I’m just here to entertain you, Sarousch.” The woman had an apathetic way about her, like a city dove numb to humans after years of scavenging for leftovers. She examined her fingernails as she spoke.

Sarousch appeared mildly amused. “Exactly, Madellaine. Entertain  _ him _ .”

She looked up at him, unimpressed. “I’m sorely underpaid,” she muttered. He patted her on the shoulder and left the caravan. 

* * *

Charles Durand came into Paris with Victor and three mercenaries. They were expensive, but Charles wasn’t in the state for making wise financial decisions. Besides, Amaranth had earned him more than a few lifetimes worth of money through her performances. But he didn’t want her for the coin--he wanted her as a daughter.

Charles entered the city midday. He carried a newly purchased sword on his hip and frowned at passing Parisians from his horse. His mercenaries flanked him, and Victor trailed behind the lot of them. He moved through the city, appearing severe. A man yelling on the street corner turned his eye.

“Excise Satan from France, mighty nation! Kill all demons which reside! Protect the king! Put down the bell-ringer!”

Charles descended from his horse and tied it to a post. He watched the yelling man with morbid curiosity. A woman carrying a basket shuffled by and paused briefly to eye the man. Charles made a move to disturb her path.

“You, woman,” he said, “you know of this bell-ringer?”

“Oh, sure,” she responded, smiling cheerfully and swatting her hand, “but he’s harmless as a wee babe. I see ‘im all over town with that young lady. Sings everywhere she goes.”

Charles tried to grab the woman’s arm, but she moved along too quickly. He scowled at his mercenaries and moved to his horse, then stamped his foot. He mounted his horse, cussing, and moved toward the Palais de Justice.

* * *

The Judge held a glass lens to his eye, perusing parchment. He tossed one sheet aside to examine another, then put it down and cleared his throat.

“Yes, well, this is very concerning,” he drawled. “You say this woman is your daughter? A maiden, I take it?”

“ _ That’s what I said _ ,” Charles responded impatiently. “She has been kidnapped or enchanted. Regardless, she is mine and I want her back into my custody immediately.”

“Certainly,” the Judge said, “I shall put my men on it-- _ immediately _ .”

Charles Durand frowned at the fat man sitting behind the desk. “Fine,” he finally said, standing. “I will wait for her to be returned to me.”

Charles stood noisily and left. The judge watched him leave and, dismissing his complaint, turned his attention to his pipe.

* * *

A razor was wiped with a cloth and brought to Amaranth’s face. She squinted at her reflection which sat inside a bronze-framed mirror, then brought cream to her skin. She didn’t say much, but Quasimodo watched her mix oil and fat together to make it. He was leaning over a table, fiddling with a small unripe apple and watching her. She pulled at her nose to get around her nostrils, dragging the razor gingerly along. Fuzz picked up on the razor and collected on it like snow pushed to the side of the road. Quasimodo broke the apple in his hands and began to pick at the seeds. He tried to nibble at the fruit’s flesh, but it was too sour to eat.

“Amaranth?” he asked sweetly, resting his head in his arm and looking at her expectantly. She turned to him, wiping off cream.

“Yes?” she answered.

“Are you ever tempted to let it grow?” he asked.

Amaranth turned to stare at her reflection. She leaned over to reveal Quasimodo in the mirror, and watched his reflection examining the table. He made a point not to look up.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s a thoughtless thing now, cutting it off. I’ve been doing it for so long . . . it’s like breathing, I just do it.”

Quasimodo rubbed at the wooden table with his thumb, looking down. Amaranth gazed at him.

“I’m not ashamed,” she said, softly. “I- I just have to.  _ This  _ is me. If I let it grow.. I don’t know if I’d recognize myself. I’m afraid I wouldn’t. And other people...”

Quasimodo pressed his finger hard into the wood, then pulled back, hissing. Amaranth walked over to him and sat down, grabbing his hand away from him. A splinter was sticking out of his thumb, and she pulled it out with her fingernails. His nails, conversely, were worn down and short.

“ _ I’d _ recognize you,” he said, frowning, watching their hands. He looked up to meet her eyes. She was frowning, a tender frown which one only wears when looking inward and not feeling satisfied with what one sees.

“I know.” She gradually smiled. “I’m sure of that.”

He shook his head. “Then I don’t understand.”

“What?”

“Isn’t that what matters? That I wouldn’t mind?”

Amaranth tried to hide it as her attitude darkened. “I suppose,” she responded, sounding unconvinced.

He watched her face shift as she forcefully adopted a neutral expression. He looked at her sadly.

“I have to go to the bell-tower,” he finally said, cutting into the silence. “Archdeacon Francis wants me to ring the bells in the evening . . . I think he just wants to make sure I’m not getting myself into trouble.”

She couldn’t smile, but she put on a light-hearted tone, saying, “Oh, that wouldn’t be so bad.”

He ran his thumb across the back of her hand and sighed. Through the unfortunate exchange, she had never removed her hand from his. He pulled away.

“Goodnight, Amaranth,” he said gently. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She watched him leave, then buried her face in the crook of her arm.


	3. Chapter 3

Quasimodo was in a right sour mood when he ascended to his loft, and he didn’t need to deal with the stranger standing lost within it. He frowned as he examined the silhouette of a woman walking around his living space. The woman heard his footfalls and looked about.

“Hello? Monsieur bell-ringer?” she called.

Quasimodo frowned. He came into the light and the woman immediately recoiled. But he was too grumpy to care. He stomped past her callously, ignoring her disgusted, frightened reaction. He climbed up to the bells and found a beam high up to escape the stranger. With any luck, she would flee the bell-tower and he would be left alone.

Madellaine backed away and bumped into a decapitated statue. She finally got a hold of her breath, and steeled herself. She climbed up the ladder he had just ascended and approached his figure.

“I’m sorry, bell-ringer, you surprised me, that’s all,” she insisted.

“Yes, I’m very good at ‘surprising’,” he responded. He frowned at her as she climbed up to his level, and watched skeptically as she approached. “Do you . . .  _ need  _ something?” he asked, softening his tone.

Madellaine put on a sweet smile. “Oh! Yes! I’d love to have a tour of the bells!”

Quasimodo sighed. He pointed upward lazily. “That’s, uh, Emmanuel.”

Madellaine sat down next to him. Her closeness made him stiffen, and he scooted a few inches away.

“I bet you know a lot about the bells,” she said quietly to him, leaning close. “Have you been the bell-ringer for long?”

He eyed her. “Yes,” he responded curtly, wondering how he could get her to leave.

“I bet it gets lonely up here,” Madellaine continued. She grabbed his hand, making him stare at her.  _ Too easy _ , she thought to herself. She couldn’t wait to be done with this so that she could return to Sarouch with the good news, although she did find it insulting how low she was expected to stoop. She figured she’d be returning to Sarousch soon with the twisted bell-ringer following her with all the loyalty of a hound.

“. . . well, I have work to d-”

Madellaine leaned forward too close, and he dodged her, leaning so far back that something in his back popped. He looked her over and, realizing immediately her intention to kiss him, yelled “hey!”

“What?!” she yelled back, offended. He stood up on the beams, scowling, and backed away.

“What is this!?” he asked.

Madellaine stood up to face him and, fuming, slapped him across the face. She descended the ladder and missed a step on the bottom, causing her to stumble as she stomped out.

* * *

Archdeacon Francis was simply trying to have one nice day. He was beginning to find that such a request was a massive one in the eyes of God. Still, he would be everlastingly grateful for a day free of singers, thugs, and blonde-haired women who march through the nave yelling profanities. Francis was feeling hopeful until he saw a familiar face enter the church.

“Where’s m’ little gremlin?!” Jehan yelled, tipsy. “Where’s that little devil?”

Archdeacon Francis approached Jehan warily, stating his name to get his attention.

Jehan looked at him and grinned. “Franky!” he yelled.

“Jehan,” the archdeacon repeated, frowning. “Where have you been?”

“Oh, y’know . . .” Jehan trailed off, taking a few uncertain steps. “Getting by.”

“I said  _ where,  _ Jehan. And you would be wise not to enter the church in such a state.”

Jehan looked offended briefly. “What? No! I’m just trying to find-- where is that little monster anyway? Still stuck up in those towers?”

The archdeacon’s frown deepened. “ _ Quasimodo _ is a very busy man.”

“Doing what?” Jehan asked. “Does he do push-ups up there all day or something?”

“You should leave, Jehan,” the archdeacon responded.

“What for?!” Jehan shook his head. “I have the right-- to b-be in here!”

The archdeacon sighed. “Perhaps,” he acquiesced. “But try not to bother the bell-ringer. We both know you just want to rile things up.”

“Me?” Jehan asked, incredulous. “Of course not! I just want to pray!”

“For your sake, I hope so,” Francis stated. Jehan frowned and walked off deeper into the nave. Francis watched Jehan critically as the drunkard stumbled down into the church.

Jehan disappeared behind a stone pillar and waited for the archdeacon to return to his boring, repetitive duties. Once Francis was out of view, Jehan ran to the higher levels of the church. He wandered the triforium briefly before finding a way up into the bell-towers.

He entered the loft slowly and took it in. The space was largely familiar, but a few things had changed since Jehan last saw Quasimodo. He approached the table in the center and examined the small replica of the cathedral. He grabbed a figurine at the top of the mini bell-towers and examined it. It was the figurine of a woman, and not as well-done as the others. He found Quasimodo’s figurine in front of the church. It had sap stuck to it, and appeared mistreated, like it had been thrown about outside.

* * *

Quasimodo had failed to hear Jehan enter, however heavily the inebriated man walked. The bell-ringer had seen him from the chimera gallery. He was leaning against a gargoyle when he perked at some movement below. Sometimes it seemed that the gargoyles and grotesques would call for him to examine them. He knew every detail of their design after years of sitting beside them, gazing at them. He came to appreciate the grotesques, who resembled him far more than the kings of Juda, who watched Paris from the arcade on the West Facade. Sometimes it was nice to have a moment alone with the cathedral’s stony inhabitants. He enjoyed the company of others, but he found it surprisingly difficult to wean himself off of the cathedral, which was more of a parental figure to him than Claude Frollo. Notre-Dame, Our Lady, was inherently motherly, however cold and unflinching her architecture seemed.

  
Esmeralda thought the church was beautiful, but she felt uncomfortable inside it. Quasimodo could tell, although she was warming up to the cathedral. Conversely, Phoebus didn’t seem very sentimental at all about the edifice. The Captain of the Guard would come and go as if he were passing through any common building, hardly looking about him and often appearing bored. The only other man who seemed similarly attached to Notre-Dame was Archdeacon Francis, but that relationship was less dependent.

Quasimodo moved into the South Tower and climbed deftly along the scaffolding, passing over the pivoted beam which held Jean-Marie. He squinted his good eye, and frowned upon recognizing Jehan. Jehan hadn’t visited for nearly ten years, and Quasimodo had assumed the man was dead after he had inherited Claude’s possessions.

“HEY! Quasi! You up here?” Jehan yelled. His voice echoed in the bells.

Quasimodo descended down a ladder into the loft, stepping along quietly. Jehan spotted him.

“Look at you, all grown up! How- how long has it been?” Jehan slurred, giving a charming smile. Quasimodo examined the man’s face. He hardly looked like his late brother, but they shared the same angular cheekbones.

“What do you want, Jehan?” Quasimodo asked. Jehan threw him an unhappy look. Ten years ago, Quasimodo may have been enamored by the man. Jehan was handsome and cool, but Quasimodo found in retrospect--when shifting through his memories, as a man without any companions often does--that Jehan was far less admirable than a child would believe. If he remembered correctly, Jehan was a drunken whore-monger. The latter part was an addition by Claude Frollo, and Quasimodo considered it with a grain of salt.

“Must I want something to come see you, little gremlin?” Jehan asked, and explored the loft after thoroughly staring at Quasimodo’s face. He came to Quasimodo’s makeshift table and began to play carelessly with the wooden pieces. Quasimodo ignored the nickname and moved slowly toward Jehan.

“It’s been years . . . why come here? Considering I . .”

“Killed my only brother?” Jehan said flippantly, turning sharply to look at Quasimodo. Quasimodo frowned and turned away his eyes.

“I didn’t want to, Jehan,” he responded softly. Jehan picked up a figurine and held it close to his face.

“I figured,” he said. “Claude was harsh . . . I saw it then, you know. I saw him devolving. He wasn’t always like that. He loved me once. You understand?” Jehan looked at Quasimodo, awaiting a response. Quasimodo nodded slowly. Jehan looked back at the wooden piece in his hand. “Who is this?” he asked.

Quasimodo neared him timidly, and eyed the figurine which he was holding. “Oh,” he mumbled. “That’s--”

“Is this the woman? The woman Frollo . . .”

“No,” Quasimodo responded quickly. Jehan put down the figurine slowly, and Quasimodo moved forward to position it correctly.

“I shouldn’t be mad,” Jehan said, suddenly, his voice dark. “Claude  _ deserved  _ it. I shouldn’t hate you.”

“But you do,” Quasimodo finished. Jehan nodded.

The pair stood stiffly for a while. Quasimodo turned his attention to his hands while Jehan stared at nothing.

Quasimodo spoke quietly. “Jehan . . . Claude’s inheritance-”

“I know,” he said. “I heard that I missed the courier. Three times, before they gave up. You’re the unluckiest lucky bastard that I know.”

Quasimodo elected, wisely, to keep his crooked mouth shut. Jehan watched him as he finally decided to place the woman’s figurine in the square before Notre-Dame.

“So who is she? A pipe dream?” Jehan asked.

_ Les fraises et les fromboises et les bon vins que nous avons bus _

Jehan turned his head at the singing, but Quasimodo was slower to pick up the sound. The singing drifted up from the spiral staircase, growing louder.

_ Raspberries, strawberries, the good wines we brew _

Quasimodo chewed on his lip. He turned his face quickly to Jehan. “J-Jehan, do you have somewhere to stay? I could pay to-”

“Oh, sure,” Jehan said. He looked at the staircase, then back at Quasimodo. “You’re not trying to get rid of me, are you?”

_ Here’s to the girls in the countryside, whom we must bid adieu _

Amaranth burst through the door, then immediately threw her shoes on the wooden floor. As she struggled to find her footing, Quasimodo realized unhappily that she was even drunker than Jehan. He thought to himself that he had a lot of nerve being picky about the company he kept, but he would appreciate someone sober.

Jehan recognized the woman as the figure. She stumbled over to the table, then leaned back to get a good look at him. In doing so, she nearly fell backwards. Jehan instinctively grabbed her arm to steady her, then caught Quasimodo giving him an irate look.

“Where were you, Amaranth?” Quasimodo asked. His tone was one of timid concern. She ignored him and instead kept singing. Her body seemed like liquid as she swayed side-to-side. Steadying her, Jehan found, was like trying to hold onto the midsection of a cat.

_ I’m a rover, seldom sober, I’m a rover of the high degree _

“This is the company you keep, Cyclops?” Jehan asked, grinning at Quasimodo. “I wouldn’t have guessed!”

“Amaranth,” Quasimodo stated, attempting to get her attention. She stopped her singing to gaze at him, then, smiling, kept singing. “Amaranth!” he repeated, louder.

“What?” she asked, laughing.

“It’s very late,” he said, softly. “It’s almost winter. And it’s dangerous at night, especially if you’re .. drunk.”

“Tell me about it,” Jehan mumbled, recalling having been robbed almost immediately after arriving. The thief was disappointed to find his pockets empty.

Amaranth was unresponsive for a moment. She moved forward and picked up her figurine, slipping out of Jehan’s hold. “I made this one,” she said, showing Jehan her handiwork (or lack thereof). She turned the little wooden piece in her fingers, pausing to examine it. “It’s not right though, is it?” she asked, her words slurring together.

Quasimodo frowned. He’d seen her drunk before, but he found it off-putting now, especially in front of Jehan. Jehan was smiling and waggled a brow at Quasimodo, enjoying the show thoroughly.

Amaranth buried her fist in her hair and tugged. She pulled out a wire’s thickness of hair, wincing, then tried to tie it around her figurine as if putting a bow on it. Quasimodo observed her worriedly while Jehan cocked his head.

“No, no, no . .” Amaranth mumbled, “Not quite.” She put her fingers back into her hair and winced, tugging so hard that she pulled her head down to her shoulder. The behavior shocked the bell-ringer briefly before he reacted.

“Hey!” Quasimodo grabbed her arm away from her. “Don’t do that!”

“It makes sense that a woman willing to be around you would be crazy as the devil,” Jehan commented, laughing. Quasimodo turned harshly to glare at Jehan, then removed a pouch from the table and shoved it roughly at him, knocking the wind out of him. Jehan peered into the pouch and smiled at the coins inside.

“Ah, thank you, Cyclops,” he said cheerfully. “Ale doesn’t pay for itself!” Jehan slapped Quasimodo’s shoulder and, whirling around, stopped only near the door in order to give Amaranth and Quasimodo a sly, suggestive look. Quasimodo, frowning, turned to look at Amaranth, who had been staring at the ceiling and swaying. He moved his hand up to cup her shoulder, holding her still.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “Is something wrong?”

Her neck rolled side to side, then she languidly positioned her face parallel to his. “I dunno,” she mumbled. He gazed at her sadly, then squeezed her shoulder.

“All right,” he whispered. “Francis doesn’t want you in here at night, but I’m not going to have you wandering around in the dark. You’ll catch something in this weather. Come on.”

Quasimodo moved to her side and put his arm over her back. He led her to his sleeping quarters and directed her to sit down on his cot, then tugged a blanket around her shoulders. He sat down across from her and put the back of his hand against her forehead. She wouldn’t meet his eyes. He grabbed another sheet and pulled it over her to warm her up. He wasn’t satisfied until he tucked it around her front, taking care to cover her feet and arms.

“What’s wrong, Amaranth?” he asked again. She shook her head, and kept up her onset shyness. “We can talk later,” he concluded. He pet her hair, briefly, then removed himself from his quarters.


End file.
